


Five times John met Sherlock and one time he knew he was stuck for life

by CaptainDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, minimal angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDog/pseuds/CaptainDog





	Five times John met Sherlock and one time he knew he was stuck for life

 

1

Sherlock squirmed in his mother's arms, clearly uneasy with so many people around. Mrs. Holmes had found the most peaceful spot on the grounds that she could, but it still didn't stop the boys from being difficult and the party guests from being annoying.

“Hush, darling.” she whispered, rocking him gently. “Mycroft, so help me if you take that boy's cake, you will eat nothing but asparagus for a week.” The seven year old stuffed his hands in his pockets, still looking ruefully at the blond toddler standing nearby. The child held a plate of cake very carefully. He seemed to be concentrating too hard on not dropping it to even consider eating it. He wobbled a few steps nearer to the Holmes'. Mrs. Holmes looked up, donning a kind smile.

“Where are your parents?” she called to him. He looked up in surprise, nearly failing in his mission to protect the frosted monstrosity.

“Harry didn't want her cake.” he said, as though this answered her question. He raised the plate to show her.

“Where's your mum and dad?” The boy stepped closer, his eyes on the bundle in Mrs. Holmes' arms.

“What's his name?” He tried to point, but halfway there seemed to realise that he needed both hands to keep the plate steady. He did a sort of nod in Sherlock's direction.

“This is Sherlock.” The infant sniffled and stretched an arm out in the boy's direction. “What's your name?”

“John.” He said. “Harry's over there.” He pointed, and the cake wobbled precariously. Mycroft watched it with hungry eyes. “Do you want cake?” John asked, holding it in Sherlock's direction. Mrs. Holmes laughed.

“He can't have that. Don't you want it?” John shook his head. “I don't like it. There's a lot of stuff on top.” There was indeed a rather large amount of frosting, topped with a decorative rose. The hosts of the party had certainly outdone themselves in making a decadent meal.

“Why don't I set that down here so you don't have to worry about it?” She stretched out a hand and John gave her the cake. She placed it next to the bench that she sat on. John took a step closer, still peering at the baby.

“Sherrrraw...Shhhlo...”

“Sherlock.” Mrs. Holmes said, well used to Mycroft's own inability to say his brother's name. “Sometimes we call him Sherly.” John giggled.

“Cousin Shirley's got the same name.” he said. “She's not like him a lot, though.”

“Oh?”

“He's got funny eyes. I bet he knows what I'm thinking.” John brought his voice to a loud whisper. Sherlock gurgled. Mrs. Holmes didn't seem to know what to say, so she just smiled at the toddler. John leant in, bringing himself nearly nose-to-nose to Sherlock. Their gaze was surprisingly intense for boys of one and four. Suddenly, Sherlock started to giggle, little hiccup-y snorts of laughter that reddened his face. His eyes crinkled at the edges. John started to laugh too.

“Looks like you've made a friend, John.” Mrs. Holmes said, trying to keep the astonishment out of her tone. She had never seen her youngest son giggle without at least a Mycroft screaming.

“Joooohn!” A small blonde torpedo hurled itself in their direction. It collided with John, knocking him to the ground. He shouted. Sherlock stopped laughing abruptly. He returned to watching the scene with cold, wide eyes.

“Harry! Get off me!” John squirmed beneath a girl a little older than him, her hair in plaits. She let him up and planted her hands on her hips.

“Mum says we have to go.” she announced. “She got in a fight with Auntie Hermione again.” John frowned, his jaw clenched. It made him look like a miniature soldier.

“I don't want to go.”

“Mum says.” John groaned.

“I'm _coming_.” he said, and then turned back to Mrs. Holmes and little Sherlock.

“Thanks for taking my cake.” he said. “I liked being friends with you Sherrr...” he screwed up his face. “ _Sherlock_.” The infant burped in response. John trotted away after his sister.

The moment the boy was out of sight, Sherlock began to cry.

 

2

Sherlock did his very very best to turn into a tortoise.

“You freak!” The word had become a muddle in his head, just a throbbing rhythm of a word, repeated endlessly by the group of other children. He put his hands over his ears and ducked his head further between his knees. _Stop stop can't think leave me alone stop._

A little girl was crying a few yards away, clutching the burnt remains of a doll. It wasn't his fault. How was he supposed to know that she'd put the doll in that box! It was just some stuffed fabric, after all. Surely it didn't merit _this_.

“You made Abby cry, freak. They ought to put you away. Cart you off to a loony bin!” It was the boy, the one with black hair and divorced parents who hid sweets behind the coat rack. It was he who had kicked Sherlock first.

Sherlock grunted as another foot made contact with his ribs. He hated that. He didn't like making noise. It felt like he was giving them something; like revealing a weakness. He didn't want them to know how much they were really hurting him.

“What were you doing anyway?” one of the children shouted. “Trying to blow us all up?”

“No!” he cried, desperate to make them all just _go away._ “Leave me alone!” His words were lost amid the shouting and kicking. He fell to his side and one of them made contact with his stomach. He gasped and retched, trying to curl further in upon himself.

“Oi! What do you think you're doing?” The voice seemed distant, and Sherlock was too out of sorts to judge exactly how far away it had come from. He was aware enough to know the voice to be male, older than himself. Not by much, but the years between were crucial. Entering puberty; the voice had broken while shouting. His only thought: _God, go away, I don't need you I just need to be left alone, go away, go away, go away._

Mummy always said that he needed to let people in. Let people help him. Let people care about him. Idiotic. That was exactly the sort of behaviour that put him here, on the pavement, getting bloodied by a group of children.

The pounding of feet into his torso stopped. He stayed curled in a tight ball, thinking of animals that pretended to be dead so that predators would leave them alone. There was shouting, a curse, more crying from Abby.

“Get off him!” The newcomer was just old enough to be intimidating. The children scattered

“Can you move?” The voice was nearer to Sherlock's ear than he had expected. He flinched.

“I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to help.” His voice was soft. It reminded Sherlock of that doctor they kept sending him to, only more sincere.

“I know that, but I'm fine. Just go away.” He was surprised that the words were audible, muffled by his scarf and arms. The boy snorted.

“You are really obviously not fine. Can you sit up?”

“Go away.” Firm hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him out of his tight foetal position. “Let go of me.”

“Not a chance.” The boy chuckled. “Not until I know you haven't got a broken rib or something.” Sherlock avoided his gaze.

“How's your breathing?”

“What are you, a doctor?”

“Maybe someday. I know enough to see if you need a hospital.”

“Bloody boy scout.”

“Hey, none of that. What are you, eight?”

“Nine.”

“Well, let's see if we can get you home. Where do you live?”

Sherlock just shook his head.

“Fine then. We'll go to my place, well, my cousin's place.” Not from around here, then.

“Up you get.” Before Sherlock could protest or struggle, the boy had hoisted him to his feet, and was supporting him by way of an arm over his shoulder. Sherlock tried to twist away, but he had an iron grip.

“I can walk!” he snarled.

“Can you?” The boy didn't look so sure. He released Sherlock and watched. Sherlock stumbled. His knee gave way beneath him. He must not have noticed when they kicked him there. He felt himself falling and scrabbled desperately. The boy caught him, grinning.

“What was that about walking?” he said. “Oh, don't look like that, I won't bite.” He wrapped Sherlock's arm over his shoulder again and started walking. Sherlock had no choice but to stumble along with him.

“What's your name, then?”

“Sherlock.”

“Good to meet you, Sherlock. That's an interesting name. Know what it means?”

“Someone with closely cut hair.” he grumbled. The boy laughed and extended a hand to flick at one of Sherlock's unruly black curls.

“Hmm, doesn't really describe you, does it?”

“What's it to you?”

“Just making conversation. I'm John, by the way. Pretty mundane name, next to 'Sherlock'.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Huh? Well I couldn't just leave you there, could I?”

“You very well could have.”

“Maybe _you_ could have ignored a kid getting beaten, but I couldn't. They could have done some serious damage, you know?”

“I'd have been fine.”

“Fine as in not really fine at all, yeah.”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. He couldn't argue with John, the boy was so steadfast. He was sturdy, good at supporting people. A good, easy-going, loyal...

Sherlock banished the thoughts. He didn't have friends. Didn't need friends. He certainly didn't need to be friends with an older boy who liked playing Good Samaritan. He stayed silent for the rest of the walk to the house.

The moment they got to the front steps, the door swung open, revealing a dumpy woman with hair the exact dirty blond of John's.

“What's this, Johnny?”

“He was getting beaten up. Could you maybe take a look at him? He's having trouble walking and breathing.”

“I didn't tell you I was having trouble breathing.” Sherlock muttered. John rolled his eyes.

“I do have ears, genius. I could hear you wheezing.”

The woman darted forward and seized Sherlock. She dragged him inside, going on and on about the state of the world, and kids these days, and look what they've done to you. They passed a mirror and Sherlock got a brief look at himself. Christ. No wonder John seemed so concerned. He had a blackened eye and a cheek was all scratched up, and there were rocks in his hair.

John joined them in the kitchen to help patch him up. He had surprisingly careful and gentle hands for someone who seemed to rely on brute force. Doctor's hands. Sherlock stayed almost completely still while they checked him over.

“That should do it.” John's aunt Lucy said, putting away the box of medical supplies.

“You feel okay enough to go home? John can walk you.”

“I'm fine.” Sherlock snapped, but added, “Thanks.” He stood up and made for the door.

“Er. Good to meet you. Thanks for everything.”

“No problem.” John said, a sad sort of smile on his face.

“Don't hesitate to stop by for a cuppa any time.” Auntie Lucy said. Sherlock nodded and left. He wanted to be out of John's concerned gaze as soon as possible. It unnerved him how much the boy seemed to care. He would not ever be returning for tea.

 

3

Sherlock grunted as Victor elbowed him in the side.

“Come on, Sherly, loosen up!” Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible. He'd given up telling Victor not to call him Sherly.

“Why don't I get you a drink? Help you relax.” The older boy got up to fetch drinks, leaving Sherlock to scowl on the sofa. He watched the rest of the partygoers without really taking them in. Most were university students, classmates of Victor. They were very boring. He huffed out a breath. Christ he could go for a cigarette. _Anything_ to distract him from the drunken couples necking and obnoxious pounding music.

“Mind if I sit?” It took Sherlock a moment to realise that the young man was talking to him. By the time he shrugged noncommittally, he had already slumped down.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“Not really.” Sherlock said. The bloke was more than a little drunk. He barked out a laugh.

“Me either. Nothing to do but drink.” He hiccuped to prove his point. “What's your name, then?”

“Sherly.” Sherlock said drily.

“That's a funny name for a bloke. I've got a cousin called Shirley. She's a right bitch, though. Mine's John. John Watson.” He thrust out a hand, which Sherlock did not shake. The name sparked something in Sherlock's memory that he couldn't place. John dropped his hand, but he didn't look bothered.

“Med student, is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.” John laughed. “How'd you know?” Sherlock could have told him that nearly everyone there was a medical student, it wasn't a difficult leap. Besides, his student ID was sticking out of his jeans pocket and he was wearing a tee-shirt for a heart disease charity.

“I'm psychic.” Sherlock told him. John fixed him with a hard stare, still intense despite the alcohol.

“You're interesting.” he said. “You here with anyone?” Sherlock spared a glance around. Victor was in conversation with a pretty brunette. Judging from the cut of her blouse, he wouldn't be back for a while.

“No.” he said.

“Never seen you before. Know Sammy, do you?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock said, knowing the drunk man would not call him on his lie.

“How old're you, Sherly?” John was still staring at him intently, and he reached out a hand. Sherlock flinched at the first touch to his hair, which John didn't notice, but relaxed when he seemed content to just twist the curl around his finger repeatedly.

“Twenty.” he said. John frowned.

“No way, you're just a baby. How old are you, really?”

“Seventeen.” John laughed. He stopped abruptly and leant in close. His hand was still winding its way through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock could taste his beer-laden breath. It was less unpleasant than he would have expected.

“You have a weird face.” John murmured.

“I've been told.”

“You shouldn't be that beautiful. You're like...like...fuckin'...fuck, what's that painter's name?” Beautiful? Sherlock had been called many things, but beautiful had never been one of them. He frowned.

“Are you really psychic? I'd believe you if you were.”

“No. I simply observe.” John laughed again,a warm huff across Sherlock's face. They were very close now. All Sherlock could see was John's eyes. Bright blue, but somehow warm. Pupils very dilated. It would take nothing, hardly any movement at all, to just lean forwards and-

John beat him to it, curling his fingers in a stronger grip and pulling their mouths together. Sherlock stiffened in surprise, but parted his lips to let John's tongue in. John hummed into his mouth. Fascinating.

Sherlock had done enough experimentation to know what a kiss should be. He knew how to move, how to breathe, how to touch for an effective kiss. Kissing John Watson was...well, Sherlock was going to have to re-evaluate his data.

“You're thinking a lot.” John grumbled against his mouth. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head. John gave a moan of approval. Suddenly, it became very easy to shut everything out. He lost track of time, concerned only with snogging this well-pissed man he'd only just met.

Something pinched his shoulder and pulled him violently backwards. He saw John look around, confused. Victor stood over them, holding two bottles of beer in one hand, the other still wrapped around Sherlock's shoulder.

“Make a friend, did you?” His expression was amiable, but Sherlock felt a chill in his stomach. He may be paying for this later.

“Oi, who're you?” John asked. Victor pulled Sherlock off the sofa.

“Let's get out of here, Sherlock. You're obviously bored.”

“Hey, I thought you said you were here alone.” Victor continued to ignore John. He turned Sherlock around and started to march him away. He abandoned the beers on an empty chair and wrapped a hand possessively around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock managed to look back. John sat on the sofa, watching them go. He looked a bit forlorn. Sherlock tried to shoot him an apologetic smile, but he wasn't sure if John caught it. He wouldn't remember Sherlock by the next morning anyway.

 

4

Sherlock stopped in his tracks when he saw the man. The last time he had seen John Watson, he had looked a little lost, but mostly confused. That was years ago. Now...well, he looked more than a little lost, crouched with a duffel in his army fatigues.

Sherlock glanced back at the man in the cafe. He wouldn't be leaving for a while, and there wasn't much evidence he could gain from someone eating lunch. He gave in to temptation and walked over to John.

Even if John had remembered Sherlock from their brief encounter, he wouldn't have recognised him. Sherlock sported a somewhat fluffy ginger wig and beard and a warm woolen jacket that was far below his usual standards for style. John didn't even register that he was there until Sherlock spoke.

“Fag?” He held out a pack. “Look like you could use one.” John looked up.

“No, thanks. I don't smoke.”

“Mind if I do? You a doctor?”

“Go ahead. Erm, yeah. How could you tell?”

“Your bag says RAMC.”

“Oh.” John glanced at his bag self-consciously. His hands were clenching and unclenching around the duffel's strap.

“Shipping out?” Sherlock asked, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Y-yeah. Afghanistan. Second tour.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Yeah. Well. That's war, isn't it? I'm supposed to be meeting someone here but...she hasn't turned up.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Half an hour.” John looked down at his hands. “God I'm pathetic.” Sherlock crouched and put a hand on his left shoulder.

“Did you argue?”

“We've never really got on. But I thought she might...well, seeing as I'm shipping out, she might...” He shrugged. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder.

“I'm sorry. It must be hard, with no-one to see you off.”

“Yeah.” John looked up at Sherlock and gave him a weak smile. “It's...oh god, it's stupid.”

“No, go on.”

“It's like, when you have someone to say goodbye to...you know there's a reason you're leaving, you know? It sounds like something out of a film, but that's how I feel. I like knowing that there's someone who cares enough to see me off, who'll be here when I get back.” Sherlock nodded. He wasn't quite sure he understood, but John seemed to need all the reassurance he could get.

“Sorry!” John said suddenly. “Here I've only just met you and I'm giving you this sob story.”

“It's fine.” Sherlock said, smiling. “I was the one who approached you, after all. You looked like you could use a friendly conversation. It's all fine.” John smiled at him again, his whole face lighting up.

“Glad to see there are still decent people in the world. Something to fight for, I guess.”

Sherlock caught movement out of the corner of his eye; his target was moving. He turned back to John.  
“I have to go, I need to get to work.” he said. John looked a little disappointed. “I wish I could see you off. You're a good man, John Watson.” He leant in and kissed John, just to the side of his mouth, and stood to leave. He turned before he could see John's reaction, and hurried away. John shouted after him, but he had taken so long to recover from the shock that Sherlock was already several yards away. He broke into a run; the target had just thrown something suspicious into a bin.

 

5

“Ah. Bit different from my day.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Sherlock looked up from the microscope. He'd recognise that voice anywhere, had it committed to memory since that awful party in college. Doctor John Watson, army veteran, walked into the room with Mike Stamford. He was...damaged. But he was here.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine.”

“Well what's wrong with the land-line?”

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry. It's in my coat.”

“Er, here. Use mine.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Sherlock feigned surprise. Of course his phone had a signal.

“'s an old friend of mine. John Watson.”

Sherlock's fingers brushed John's as he took the offered mobile.

 

+1 (John POV)

John stared at the ground. There wasn't much else to look at. Everything that was exciting about London, about life, had gone over a cliff in Switzerland to be dashed on the rocks below and swept away by the water. He tapped idly on his plastic cup of coffee.

“Cigarette?” He glanced up, and startled at the sight of the man.

“You-you're that man-”

“Hello.” The gingery man smiled. “Actually, I've quit. Survived Afghanistan, I see.”

“Barely.” John said, rubbing his shoulder. “Sit down if you'd like.” He motioned to the empty space on the bench. The man complied.

“Thanks. So, did your sister ever show up?”

“Er, no. She didn't. I don't remember telling you that it was my sister.”

“You must have.”

“Mm. Suppose so.”

“Did you ever find someone? Someone to fight for, or whatever you were talking about?” John's eyes dropped to his hands, clasped in his lap

“Yeah. Yeah I did.”

“Oh. What happened?”

“He...died. Fell.” John's voice broke a little. “Sorry. Christ, it's been three years and I still...still get...”

“I've never been good at conversational timing,” The man said, extending a hand to cover John's. “But...John.” On John's name, he dropped his voice to a familiar drawl and pushed the red wig off.

Once John had finished hyperventilating, he took Sherlock's face in his hands.

“You...God, _you._ ”

“Yes. Me.” Sherlock said, because it seemed like a very Sherlock thing to say, and John needed reassurance that it was in fact Sherlock sitting before him.

“I'm never going to get rid of you, am I?” John laughed breathlessly.

“Never.” Sherlock agreed, and kissed him.


End file.
